


Exploration

by sparxwrites



Series: can i offer you a nice egg in these trying times [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Agender Character, Genetic Engineering, Lactation, Masturbation, Milking, Nipple Play, Oviposition, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Really?</i>” Lying asks, of no one in particular, staring up at the ceiling in quiet exasperation. They’d thought the eggs were the last of the unexpected physical changes from their genetic experiments, but… apparently not. “I don’t remember using <i>cow genes</i>, for Notch’s sake. Is this really necessary?”</p>
<p>(In which Lying's forays into genetic experimentation just <i>keep</i> coming back to haunt them, in new and exciting ways. Ah well. At least they're having fun with it...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exploration

**Author's Note:**

> " **anonymous asked:** I just found your kirinlying egg laying fic and h h hhhh h h. h it's 100% amazing, totally. but now i'm wondering if lactation be something that could happen?? because I am. yes hello that would be very fine with me, and I wanted to know from the person who wrote said doc themselves"
> 
> i want to say “i’m kinkshaming” but this is me we’re talking about. i think i have too many kinks to do any shaming. so. merry christmas you filthy sinners, have some eggs and lactation.

It’s their fourth clutch when it happens.

They’re panting, bearing down, legs skidding against the sheets as they struggle to push out the second egg. One hand’s between their legs, tangled in the darkly writhing mess that is their tentacles, and the other is at their chest, pinching one pink, peaked nipple between their fingers and tugging, twisting until sparks of pleasure-pain spark down their spine.

The egg slips free with a final push, and they cry out, tentacles tightening in a bruising grip around their forearm as they shudder and gasp their way through their first orgasm of the night. The pleasure washes through them - back arched and thighs clenched trembling and tight, mouth open and eyes clenched shut as their breath catches in their throat - and abates slowly, leaving them covered in a sheen of sweat and shivering against the bed with their exertions.

It’s only in the quiet space between laying the egg and waiting for the next to drop that they realise their hand - and chest - is covered in a thin, watery liquid. Frowning, they wipe it off on the sheets with a faint noise of confusion, before reaching up absently to roll one nipple between thumb and forefinger.

When their fingers quickly slick with the liquid again, though, it becomes impossible to deny that they’re the one producing it.

“ _Really_?” they ask, of no one in particular, staring up at the ceiling in quiet exasperation. They’d thought the eggs were the last of the unexpected physical changes from their genetic experiments, but… apparently not. “I don’t remember using _cow genes_ , for Notch’s sake. Is this _really_  necessary?”

Still, despite the minor annoyance, they can’t help being curious. Their chest _aches_  a low, dull pressure that’s both unfamiliar and annoying, nipples swollen and oversensitive. Exhaling slowly and biting their lip, they rest a tentative hand against their chest, considering…

It’s easy, so easy, to close thumb and forefinger around one swollen nipple, stiffened and peaked with arousal and reddened from their previous attentions to it, and tweak it gently. Oversensitive as they are, it sends flickers of pleasure-pain through them, and a small trickle of milk leaking across their fingers.

Lifting a thumb to their lips, they lick it, tongue flickering out to catch a drop of milk clinging warm and heavy to their skin. It tastes oddly sweet, something almost like vanilla or almond catching against the back of their mouth, and they can’t help the low moan that escapes them, eyelids fluttering.

They lick their fingers clean one by one, slow and methodical, catching every drop until their hand is slick with saliva and they’re humming with delight at the sweetness coating their tongue.

Fingers slick with saliva edge back down to their chest, trailing along the long slope of their neck, tracing over the lines of their collarbone, before fastening around their nipple once more. The slickness makes it difficult to get a good grip, and in their frustration, they pinch at the swollen, sensitive flesh with their nails - only to yelp, hips jolting upwards, at the bright bolt of pleasure it sends through them, yet more milk leaking out to bead on the slight, milk-heavy curve of their chest.

It takes them a while to work out the best way to work their nipples, to milk them, but eventually they discover the easiest way to relieve the pressure - their nipple caught between two knuckles as they pull on it with a slow, rolling tug, milk leaking over their in thin streams.

They feel like, perhaps, this shouldn’t arouse them as much as it is. Their tentacles are already stirring again, where they’d quieted and shrunk between their legs after the first orgasm, the flickering flames of arousal rekindling in the pit of their stomach. But it’s good, and _easy_. There’s warm, spreading pleasure and relief from the too-full ache of their chest, contrasting with the painful-but-good sharpness of too-tight fingers against sensitive flesh.

When their first nipple runs dry - emptied, the ache in that side of their chest abated - they move over to the next one, closing fingers around the swollen nub of it with a groan as they settle back into the rhythm and slow, easy pleasure of tugging and twisting it.

The next egg drops, and Lying groans, head tipping back against the pillows at the sudden ache between their legs, the pressure of something needing to get out. Both their hands are dripping with milk, their chest wet with creamy pearls of it that slide down their ribs to spot the mattress with damp.

Panting softly, they slip one hand down their chest and over the flat planes of their stomach, the sharp juts of their hipbones, to tangle with their tentacles once more. The milk is soon replaced by their thick, oilslick secretions as the tentacles curl greedily around his fingers and lower arm, sliding and tightening as Lying exhales shakily at the delicious friction sparking pleasure down their spine and in the pit of the stomach.

“Here we go,” they murmur, delicately resting pointed teeth against their lower lip, eyes fluttering as they bear down. The tentacles writhe, tightening, spines sliding out to prick lightly at their forearm, and they bear down with a gasp as their free hand works their leaking nipples, working themself up towards the rising wave of their next orgasm.


End file.
